Perpetua
by Eiri Lain
Summary: Molly/John. It all started when John asked Molly to lunch... (This is told through John's/Molly's POV; includes dark!John. It's updated every 2 days; may be rated M for later chapters; experimental chapter format; READ AND REVIEW)
1. I

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

(I)

I'm not going to lie and say Sherlock can't be a bastard. The truth: he can be a total bastard when it comes to people, and sometimes the things he says can be hurtful and demeaning. I'm use to it, but that doesn't change the truth of it all. That doesn't change Sherlock.

I know it isn't any excuse and it isn't a surprise that I am left here with Molly right after he has made some snarky comment about the fact that Molly disrupted his 'research' by tinkering with some samples he had on a microscope. His outburst hasn't been targeted to her in a very long time, and so it came as a surprise, and as swiftly as it came it disappeared with him. We watched as Sherlock left the lab in a flurry, and I was left with Molly.

She looked so upset that it made me feel so uncomfortable. I didn't know what to say to her and so I just stayed quiet. I mean what could I have said, really? "It's going to be okay"? "Don't bother, Molly, it's just Sherlock is being Sherlock"? I think I did the right thing—or at least I tell myself—because saying something would only make her realize that everyone knows. Everyone knows that she's pining for him like a lovesick high schooler, and that it's pathetic, and that it's sad because Mr. High-and-Mighty High-Functioning Sociopath Sherlock Holmes doesn't care one bit.

But then again, who am I being? I'm just the best friend of the brilliant crazy bastard that Molly Hooper views as the center her world. Is it an obsession that she has? She so longingly wants to please him that sometimes it's as sickening as a puppy begging for the attention of its owner. Her eyes light up and gleam in happiness every time there is a mention of his name or a glimmer of a thought, or better yet his appearance.

He treats her so horribly that it only seems to keep her coming back for more. If I didn't know Molly—which who am I kidding?—I don't know her really—I'd say she's a little out of it and it doesn't surprise me that she's as alone as she is. It's a pity really because in her own weird way, she's an all right person in her quirks and all… I mean, she's a lady in her early thirties, working with dead bodies for a living, no love life, and stuck with her fat cat Toby every night. Then again, is that really so bad? Maybe a good bloke will come along and knock her some sense...

TBC

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my take on how John and Molly got together as told from John's perspective. This will be updated daily and is what I'd call a 'slow-mance' (slow-romance) fanfiction. I wanted to see where this is going, and I hope you join me in this journey. Please read and review. Fanfic writers don't get paid, but reviews are like valuable payments and incentives!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of their characters. The story line, however, is all my crazy-fan-girl's head. I'm just a lowly fan-girl trying to show her appreciation.


	2. II

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

(II)

Something sticks to me every time I see her. She seems so lonely, so eager for any attention or a social acknowledgement that I feel if I were to come up to her and say "Do you want to go for a walk down the block?" just for the hell of it, or maybe something outrageous such as "Do you want to collect some fucking rocks from the corner parks?" or some other bullocks, she'd probably say "Yes!" just because it meant doing something that involved not dealing with dead people or her old cat Toby.

Am I being pathetic? Am I being cruel? I mean here's Molly, and I see her now in her baggy unappealing clothing—men repellent clothing—with her unappealing side ponytail and she's headed towards me. She's wearing a reddish lipstick and a light coral eye shadow, very clearly having prepared for Sherlock.

I wave at her as she comes closer to me. Somehow I think I'm even smiling a little bit. I realize that my smile comes out easily sincere without me even trying, and I'm reflecting that same awkward, enthusiastic, smile she's giving me.

"I'm just here to drop off some samples," I say to her, handing her a five tiny plastic bags of soil that I'm not quite sure will solve this case, but if Sherlock is adamant about it I'm sure it will.

Molly takes it way too eagerly, and for a split second I think she realizes that Sherlock isn't coming through the doors today. This is all just the standard drive and drop-off that I always tend to do for Sherlock when the case really isn't really worth Sherlock's precious time. I'm sure this case will be closed by tomorrow, and I think Molly knows this as she looks through the bag of soil samples that she'll have to be testing in the lab for some sort of pesticide that was the culprit for killing Mrs. Abigail Wormwood's cat and husband.

I'm following her now as she says something I'm not really listening to-I'm sure it's some gibberish formalities to fill the awkwardness of it all-and I walk beside her as I follow her to her lab. The doors open and I see her boss Stewart as he's about to leave. I wonder what he thinks of Molly's association with Sherlock and myself...probably not even worth thinking about.

"So, I'm just going to put these over here and uh... I'll be done hopefully by tonight with the findings."

"Sounds good."

She places the samples on top of her table near her telescope and pipettes and what-not, and turns to me with that smile of hers again. You'd think after working together for so many cases and seeing each other practically three times a week, she'd manage not to seem to nervous, but here she was doing exactly that. I watch her smile ruefully, and uncertain and for God's sake I hate when I can tell she's really trying hard to make conversation, or just be social because dammit if she doesn't suck at it.

"It must have been interesting getting all these samples, huh?" She tries to sound upbeat-way too awkward. I just nod my head 'yes'

"Yeah, a lot of digging it took." End of conversation-a conversation leading nowhere.

She nods her head way too intently, very eager to listen to more, or looking like she's waiting for me to say something more. Oh for god's sakes...

"Is it a serious heavy case?"

"Not overly extensive. Just an old lady trying to find out who poisoned her husband."

I try not to say any more; short and sweet conversations with Ms. Molly Hooper.

"Oh my!" She covers her mouth as she gasp, and shakes her head disappointedly. "That's so sad John! Why would anyone do such a thing to an old woman?"

Oh, Molly, Molly... don't you know how these cases are by now?

I try my best not to look at her in disbelief of how simple she already seems like she's trying to think of the case. Then again, I think she's a smart woman and after years of working with Sherlock and myself I'm certain she knows damn well this isn't a clear-cut case. None of our cases are ever clear-cut, even the most basic cases or 'low hanging fruits' or 'LHFs" as Sherlock love to refer to them recently.

"Hmm," I nod my head. I don't want to elaborate or go over every details of the case with Molly. I will have enough of that once I see Sherlock again after his ventures in his 'mind palace'.

"Just, uh, let me know if you find anything that could be poison to kill in those soils," I say, and she smiles brightly again and nods her head.

"I will, don't worry!"

"Text me once you're done."

"Uhm…okay, I will."

Silence. There's an awkward silence or pause between us and I hate it. I want to leave as soon as possible, because trying to just talk with Molly is so strange—I don't know how else to explain it. So for a few seconds I'm fidgeting around and I look at my phone to say I got to go then I hear a grumble.

I look up at her. The soft grumbling of a stomach—the one that you hear when you're so damn hungry.

She's blushing in embarrassment right in front of me, as her hands wrap around her stomach trying to stop the grumbling. I try to brush it off.

"Sounds like lunch time, huh?" I say this in every hope that she realizes I'm just making light of it and it really isn't anything to be embarrass about. You have to eat when you have to, and obviously she has probably been so deep in her work that she had forgotten her lunch. It was pretty late anyway.

"Y-yeah… hungry," she laughs it off slightly, and she looks at her watch on her wrist. "I, uh, didn't realize it was so late already!"

"2 pm, yeah. I haven't had lunch myself, so I don't blame you for being hungry." For Pete's sakes this all sounds like crappy dialogue from a D-list movie. I need to get out of here.

"Well, uhm,I'll be going to lunch now." Her hands are in her lab coats—I'm sure to stop them from fidgeting. "Would you want to join me?"

"No thank you, I'll have to be on my way." Did that sound way too reflexive?

I see something flicker in her eyes—disappointment, maybe? Or relief that she would not have to entertain having to socialize?—then it fades into a smile as she nods again and she's trying to explain herself now—typical Molly.

"Well, just asked because maybe you were hungry too maybe…and it's no problem, really, uh..." She should just stop talking sometimes, she stammers when she's embarrass. I've noticed this before.

"Well, I got to go, Molly." I start to head back out the door.

"Yeah, me too…for lunch." Her voice is low.

"I'll see you around, yeah?" I turn to tell her, waiving.

"See you!" She awkwardly waves back and turns around to look at her desk.

A part of me feel bad not accepting her invitation for lunch. But why would I put myself through that?

As I'm walking down the hallway to get on the elevator my phone rings. Sherlock, of course.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"John, are you still at Bart's?"

"Yes."

"I spoke to Mrs. Ludwig and found a booklet of—" His voice is cutting in and out and I only make out a few words.

"Sherlock, your voice is muffled!"

"she knew about the whole incident, John, she's prime suspect she—"

-Beep- -Beep- "Bugger!" I look at my phone and see the flashing low batter signal.

"My battery is dying. Couldn't hear a bloody word you said!"

I hear him hang up.

I wait a few minutes and my phone buzzes with a text message from him.

_Make sure to tell Molly that we're looking for traces of xenobiotic chemicals that may be similar to lead.-S.H._

"Xenobiotic chemicals? Layman's term,please?" I say this out loud in exasperation, and like reading my mind, the phone buzz one final time.

'human-made', John. –S.H.

And with that final definition, by phone buzzes one final time until it's off. Just my luck! I'm now obligated to relay this message to Molly personally. I shove my worthless phone in my pocket.

Any other person would have simply texted Molly himself, but not Sherlock. I know damn well he knows that my phone dying would require me to spend more precious time in Bart's speaking to Molly. I realize that this is Sherlock's way of avoiding close encounters with Molly and I wouldn't blame him. She was a woman who clearly pined after Sherlock, and I think Sherlock feels some kind of uneasiness around her. I don't think it has anything to do with a reciprocal feeling—he doesn't feel that way at all towards anybody, especially any woman—but I think it's his weird of dealing with the fact that no matter what, Molly Hooper was a friend. God forbid, Sherlock Holmes was a shit-head when it came to dealing with friends. I know from experience.

So here I am and I find myself turning around and heading back down the hall way in search of Molly. I hope I haven't missed Molly yet, especially since she has probably gone to lunch.

I almost burst through the door and there is Mark, Molly's colleagues starting at me surprised. I don't generally see Mark unless Molly heads off, his main purpose is just to organize and look at the tests when she's not around. He's starting at me like I'm crazy. I don't doubt him; it's something I'm use to especially being friends with a certain high functioning sociopath.

"Ay, looking for Molly?" Geez, I really wish I could just tell Mark to relay the information to Molly, but from experience I know he isn't the brightest or reliant. The last time I tried to relay information to him, he never did so and I had to spend hours hearing Sherlock berate him for fudging up classifying whatever it was he was experimenting on. Tough luck for me, since every moment is preventing from getting the hell out of Bart's and enjoying the rest of my day.

"Yes. Where she off to?"

Mark points to the other side of the room, an exit which I'm sure leads to the cafeteria.

"She'll be in the cafeteria. She just headed there a few minutes ago."

So I follow the signs and I am briskly walking to the cafeteria wanting so badly to get this all over with. At this point I'm sure they're serving dinner and I'm praying that Molly is there, and I don't doubt one bit that she wouldn't be.

I look all over the cafeteria for her. There's so many damn people in here it makes me realize that perhaps it's a common thing that people in the hospitals always took their lunch breaks late if ever at all. In the sea of doctors, nurses and other people in white coats I feel like I may be missing her. Maybe she was sitting with colleagues. I look around again and scan the room and—there she is!

She chooses to sit on the far corner table, her back turned to everyone. She's sitting on one of four chairs, and she chose to sit on the right chair closes to the fall away from everyone. I'm not surprise somehow seeing her like this. Everyone around seemed to be chatting it up with other colleagues, but oh-no not Molly Hooper, the lone pathologist in the basement of one of the top hospital's in the UK. I brush that thought off—I'm trying not to be bitter, so I just continue on to her.

"Molly," I brush my had on her shoulder and step back as she gave a stir, a slight shrek and her hand flying to her heart. I notice I almost made her spill her glass of water and I'm so glad it didn't.

"John!" She looks up at me in utter surprise, "I thought you left already!"

"I had to relay a message and my bloody phone died, I'd call you if it wasn't."

"No worries, you're not interrupting anything." She waives her hand over her plate, it's untouched. The food doesn't look appealing at all. It's sliced turkey on white bread with a piece of sickly thin lettuce and tomatoes and a side of crisp. It must not have been appealing for Molly either, because as hungry as her stomach made it sound, it looked like she didn't give any signs to eat it.

"What did you need?" She asks me and I snap my gaze back at hers and I realize I'm still standing, looming over her like an idiot, so I sit across from her instead.

"Sherlock wants you to look for any traces of man-made chemicals and traces of lead of lead in the soil samples."

"I'll make sure to get on it after lunch." She says, and nothing more, and simply smiled up.

I'm quite for a moment and I rest my elbows on the table and rest my head against my hands. She clears her throat and gather's my attention and I meet brown eyes worried and questioning right at me.

"Are you okay, John?" She says. She still hasn't touched her damn sandwich or made any move to do so. I don't know why, but that simple fact bothers me. My stomach grumbles in the mean time—I'm hungry as hell, not having eatin anything since 8 in the morning.

I look up at her, and I sigh. "Just been a hectic day, is all."

"You..uhm...want to talk about it?" Molly is trying, but sometimes her attempts are just so awkward and pathetic I don't know if I should just placate her and pretend to actually talk to her about my 'trials and tribulations'. I change the subject instead; I know she wasn't much of a good wall to talk to or sound off to… or perhaps it's because I've never really talked to her really at all.

I point at her untouched plate. "That's good, huh?" I'm being sarcastic, and I'm glad at least she gets it because she laughs lightly.

"Not the greatest, but you can have some if you're, you know, hungry too."

She offers it, but the thought of eating that horrid looking sandwich almost makes me want to vomit. If I was going to eat anything, it sure as hell wouldn't be at that cafeteria.

"How long is your lunch break?" I ask her, just curious.

"It's going to be a long shift," she looks at her watch again, "I have about an hour left still."

I look at the time on the clock against the wall, and I realize that I need to eat if I wanted to not be so cranky by the time I see Martha tonight, and to run what other ridiculous errands Sherlock demanded me to. I need a decent meal and a beer.

I stand up, way too abruptly. "Let's go."

Molly looks at me, wide-eyed. "H-huh? What do you mean?" 

"Let's get out of here and get a decent lunch. This stuff looks like bullocks."

She seems thouroughly confused, but damn it if I was going to sit here any longer and wait for her reply. If I couldn't eat that crap they call a meal, I'm sure the least I could do was let Molly not do the same. She was after all planning on staying at Bart's for the whole night looking through the samples to assist in our case. The least I could do was have lunch with her.

She finally gets up and was about to take her tray.

"Leave it. Let's go."

I turn around and headed to the door and I feel her following behind me.

"So where do you plan to go?"

"A place that has a decent first meal of the day."

TBC.

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A/N: Reviews are what feed fanfic writers. Let me know what you think! :) – E.L.


	3. III

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

(III)

"Is it crazy if I told you I've never eaten here before?"

Her eyes are studying the walls with wonder and then she looks straight at me with those eyes. Her smile is shy, and somehow it's an interesting sight, especially since I can tell she's slowly letting go of her feeling of unease. We've just placed our orders of fish and chips, and I ordered a glass of the darkest beer imaginable.

"You've been at Bart's for 4 years and you haven't even ventured here until now?"

What else has she not done in those years working in one of the UK's top hospitals? Was she really that sheltered or shy?

An image of Molly sitting on that corner of the cafeteria every day for four years eating that horrid tasteless looking turkey sandwich bothered me.

She sips her lemonade and nods her head. "I've always been too busy, you know?"

"Not really." I'm simply being upfront.

"Well...it may not seem like it, but outside of the things I help you and Sherlock with, I uhm...have other things I have to work on too."

I watch her twirl the straw in her glass of lemonade in thought. I just nod my head and wait for her to gather her thoughts and continue. If I was going to have lunch with someone, I might as well let them do the talking. I don't know Molly very well, and I'm surprise that I'm curious at what exactly her day looks like outside of Sherlock and I interrupting it. Now thinking about it, it's quite often that I only really see her working on Sherlock and I's case.

"Don't get me wrong, Molly, I'm sure there are things you certainly do. It just seems, outside of our cases there really isn't much going on."

Her brows forrow. Did I hit a spot? I want to see if Molly could even get angry or irritated; that's a Molly I haven't seen.

"St. Bart's has an extensive pathology department." Her voice is less shaky than before, "the area you and Sherlock visit is mainly the general pathology wing, nothing extensive. But...there's more than that going on."

"I suppose I haven't really paid much attention."

"Uhm... yes, there's part you absolutely can't get access to, and that's the area where we do all of our autopsies of unknown cause of deaths. It..um... gets busy."

I get the feeling she's defending herself, and maybe she has every right to. I merely implied to her that her profession is a boring and dead one; then again, I have never really stuck around her 'office' to really take in the surrounding. I'm the kind of person that hates being sorrounded by white spartan walls, the smell of antibacterial and chemicals, and dead bodies cut open. I've seen enough dead bodies in my time at war... a morgue in the bottom of a hospital of all places really isn't a paradise worth going to. I decide not to delve on the topic and I just nod my head, and watch the conversation die to quietness.

I take a swig of my beer and look around us. It's quiet again between us, but somehow it isn't as awkward as before. The restaurant is half way packed with people having their late lunches eating fish and chips, and drinking their beer, and watching some boring news about some actor who just passed away.

I take a glance at Molly and she seems to be doing the same. She looks way too deep in thought, biting her thin coral lips, and sighing occasionally. I see her tapping long fingertips on the table gently. She's uncomfortable, maybe, or maybe this really wasn't a good idea to begin with. The idea: me trying to be friendly and asking her to lunch. I don't know what I was thinking.

I clear my throat to get her attention. Brown eyes looks back at me and I'm greeted with an awkward smile again. She opens her mouth to say something, but our waiter interrupts us and sets our hot steaming food in front of us.

"Here 'ye go. Enjoy."

"Wow! That's a lot!"

Molly's staring at the plate in awe, as if she's never seen fucking fish and chips in all her life. Maybe she's been eating turkey sandwiches all this time, I don't know. I don't blame her as I look at my plate. It's a huge portion good enough to feed two people each plate.

Did we look that fucking hungry? Well, glad they gave me extra chips.

I take a bite of the breaded deep fried fish and the flavor burst in my mouth.

"It's pretty damn good!"

"Yeah!"

I'm glad she likes it too, because a part of me was worried she wouldn't and this whole lunch would be... Well, what would it really be? I don't even know the reason, but somehow I'm just glad she's enjoying this meal as much as I am.

"So," I start, "What do you think?"

"Best fish and chips I've had in the world!"

"This is just one of many places, there's a lot other spots that tops this place."

"You sound like an expert connousuir." She jokes with me, and it's refreshing that it takes me back. Molly seemed more relax, and I have a feeling this might not be so bad after all.

"Well..." I begin to say, and she lean towards me, her smile and eyes directed to me, captivated. She has this amazing ability to always provide one with her full attention. How does she do that? And why, do I want to start actually having a conversation with her?

"Molly, let me tell you about the best fish and chips spots in all of UK..."

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"Well? When will she complete it?"

"Well, thank you Sherlock, 'Nice to see you, again, too!' 'Thank you for running my errands."

Sherlock stands up from the coach where he was lying and walks up to be as I shut the door and head to the kitchen. He follows me in silence, his eyes-I know-looking and observing every little detail of my being. 'Deducing' exactly what the hell I've been up to.

"You do seem so bitter, lately, John. Is it that Martha woman again?"

I hate when he makes the assumption that my mood-which I don't believe is any different or 'bitter'-has anything to do with my current girlfriend. I haven't had any issues with Martha... Martha has been one hell of a woman. Speaking of which, I have to see her tonight right after she gets off of work.

I drop my coat on the kitchen chair, and open the door to get water. Sherlock stands close, deciding to irritate me with his presence and what feels like intentioned-peskiness. He leans in and he smells my shirt, I swat him away.

"What the hell, Sherlock!?"

"Hmm..." He steps back, and with a hand on his chin he studies me. I am yet again the subject of his deduction. He must be horridly bored if it's come to this.

"Fish and chips," he says, "didn't really fancy you for the fish and chips kind of man, John. What was the special occassion?"

"I was hungry."

I take my glass of water to the living room only to find it littered with violin sheet music on the floor, scattered old books, a broken telescope, and a deflated sex doll. I... don't...even... want...to...know.

I head to my room, only to have Sherlock follow suit.

"It couldn't have been with Martha. You're seeing her tonight for an evening thrist right after her work... Hmm, no, not Martha."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"You hate eating alone in public. Very odd if you were to dine alone."

"Sherlock, I'd appreciate you leave my room. I need to get ready for my date."

"No use to get ready, when the sole purpose is for those same clothes to be removed. Why bother?"

He decides to sit on my bed, looking up at me as I shift through my closet for a button down shirt and suitable pants for my date with Martha.

"Another reason, your meal was not with Martha. You never have a meal with Martha before your 'night of passion'." Sherlock looks like he's enjoying himself. His eyes are filled with the mischeviousness that I always dread. I already know he'll continue until I tell him what he wants to hear...what he knows.

"Yes, I had lunch after I went to Bart's."

"Of course."

"I had lunch with Molly Hooper."

"Hmm. Of course."

And with that I watch Sherlock prepare to leave my room, a satisfied smirk on his face.

At my doorway, "Peculiar, but not surprising."

He's referring to me and Molly.

"What the hell does that mean?" I ask him.

He simply shrugs, and raises an eyebrow

"Bullocks!"

I'm perfectly fine.

"Have fun with Martha, John."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"And do find out what is up your arse. You've been overly bitter. I sure hope that your time tonight can fix that."

"Sherlock-"

And the door closes behind him, and here I am now alone in my room wondering if what Sherlock said is right.

Somehow, I'm not sure.

TBC


	4. IV

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

(IV)

It isn't a date really, the more I think about it as I lay here on her bed, both of us naked. Her head is nestled against my chest and she's hugging me way too tightly but I'm afraid to move because I really don't want to wake her. So I just remain as still as possible, staring up at the ceiling shrouded with complete darkness.

Martha's breathing is slow and steady, and I can feel her heart beating against my own. She's one beautiful woman and I feel lucky to even have her, but something is missing. In the month we've been dating, a majority of our time has been spent here in this bed...

Damn Sherlock for making me think about this right now, especially with his wry comments about my 'evening thirsts' with Martha being a habit. Of course it would be a habit...we were after all going out. She is my girlfriend after all, right? And I can't think of any other relationship that was any different.

Martha keeps a pretty busy schedule herself and I do as well. What is wrong with the fact that, yes, we do in fact spend a considerable amount of time together in bed? Then again... how many relationships and women have I had these past several months where this was exactly what it was really made of?

No, no... Martha and I do not spend a significant amount of time just shagging... Really... I mean, the other day or a few days ago I took her to the movies or some concert of a band I don't really care much about. That made her happy; we had beers, we had a laugh... then we went to her apartment...

Well, what if this—this thing I have with Martha at its current state—is exactly what I need? Maybe this type of relationship is crucial for me. Do I really want to be in such a serious relationship at this stage of my life? Working with Sherlock and still dealing with my own psychological issues (I am still seeing my therapist) aren't really conducive for any true serious relationship. Hell, it would only cause more trouble and headache for me... So, is it wrong for me to settle with Martha... for now? Does that make me a total prick?

She shifts against me, hands disengage from me and I feel her turn over to her side, her back facing me. I slowly inch myself in increments off to the side of the bed until I am standing beside it.

I'm surprise that she isn't stirring a bit, and I get up unnoticed.

I'm glad.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and I use its light to guide my way down the hall way where I'm sure I'll find my clothes scattered about.

I walk over my discarded blue button-up shirt, and jeans. A little before that, not too far from the entrance to the living room I see my boxers, and I put them on before grabbing the rest of my clothes in sight and walking to the restroom.

The lights are almost blinding the moment I turn them on and I blink a few times. My reflection greets me and for a moment I can't help but just stare.

I like to think that I look like I've always been and that nothing has changed. I like to think that I look happy and at ease; normal to the outside world... but I'd be lying.

There's this immense feeling of unrest and dread that has been creeping up inside me, welling up and winding, that I struggle to find a way to release it.

I haven't had a restful sleep these past several days—maybe weeks even—and it's slowly taking its toll on me.

These past days every time I close my eyes to sleep, the nightmares begin. I hear the screams and I hear the gunshot, and I feel the heat of the sun burning my flesh as if it was real. But that's not what makes the dreams so unbearable orunsettling. The sight of my comrade coming towards me to warn me of impending enemies... of being in the wrong place at the wrong time... warning me to run... and the sight of him being gunned down in front of me...

_His scream pierces through the sound of battle and reaches my ear as enemy bullets fire through him, piercing through his flesh and bursting out from him. First through his arms, then his legs, then through his stomach... I see every seeping out as he falls forward not too far from me... I'm so close and I can't move... all of it happening so fast..._

_It feels like eternity as I watch my friend slaughtered before me... but as soon as I watch him die, so did others around me as gunshots exchange. _

_I'm firing at the enemy behind my cover. I have to keep firing, I have to keep fighting, I can't look at the bodies. He died for a cause, he didn't die for nothing... _

"_John, we have to get out of here!"_

_Shot after shot after shot after shot..._

"_John! Get the fuck out of here!"_

_Someone grabs me, and I feel like I'm being dragged. I want to keep fighting to kill whoever it was that killed my comrade who was like a brother to me. _

_As we turn around I feel the shot. The pain is excruciating and spreads through me, right at my leg, and I falter, by someone is hanging onto me, carrying my weight and pushing us forward towards safety._

_Another shot...I feel it this time, so close to my shoulder and I hear my voice go hoarse with my scream. And darkness engulfs me..._

None of it is real—they were just memories—my nightmares, my dreams. I'm back to where I began, staring at my reflection, and my knuckles are white from holding the side of the bathroom counter.

I have to let it go, I have to get out of here.

The cold water is refreshing against my face and brings me back to reality. It's been 5 years already since I came back from the war, since I've decided to move on with my life and let the past be the past.

_The screams, the gun shots...the blood, seeing his stomach blown up and..._

Nausea kicks in and I'm vomiting in the toilet, gripping the seat as I kneel down before it. It keeps coming up and I throw up until there's only bile left, and then...nothing.

I sit back against the wall and close my eyes. My heart is beating quickly against my chest, my eyes watered, my throat burning.

Sooner or later these memories will fade, and just like before I'll be able to handle them and push them to the recesses of my memories so that they won't haunt me again. Sooner or later I can handle all this again and be the normal me, and-

THUD. THUD. THUD.

I hear the rapping at the door.

Martha's voice comes throw the bathroom door as she bangs on it.

"John?"

THUD. THUD. THUD.

"Are you okay in there?"

The handle rattles as she tries to open it.

I'm so happy that I closed and locked the bathroom door out of habit.

"John?"

"Stomach's been acting up," I lie.

"You think it's something you ate?"

"Not sure. But I'll be out soon."

I get up from the floor and put on the rest of my clothes. I flush the toilet, go to the sink and splash cold water on my face, and rinse my mouth.

I need to get out of here.

I step out and I'm not surprise I see Martha in her purple night shirt in front of me. Her face is unreadable, and I'm uncertain if the look on her face is of sincere concern or irritation that once again I'm not going to stay the night with her. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and she's looking right into my eyes, trying to read me. For a moment I wonder if she can tell I'm lying.

"What do you think it could be?"

"Maybe something I ate."

I hope she heard me vomiting and that she's noting my paleness and my rough voice. I'm certain she believes my lie.

"Yeah," she starts, and I feel her touch my cheek with the back of her hand, "It didn't sound so good in there; doesn't seem like you have a fever."

She looks down at my clothing.

"You know you don't have to head home because you're sick."

"I think it's for the best," I explain this, giving her what I hope looks like a sad and disappointed look. "The last thing I want is to get you sick too; or throwing up all over the place." I add a wry laugh for added effect, and I get her to smile faintly at me.

She then nods her head in agreement.

Knowing Martha, the last thing she wants to do is deal with a sick boyfriend; god knows I'm not even sure if Martha has a nursing bone in her body... she never fancied me as being one, and I'm actually thankful for this.

"You need to get some rest and take care of yourself, John."

We head to the living room where I grab my jacket and put on my shoes.

We're in front of her door now and she's about to let me out.

She hugs me and kisses me on my left cheek.

"I hope you feel better."

TBC

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's a bit dark—but I wanted to show this side of John so that it kind of explains why he's been so 'bitter'. John is with Martha—and Martha represents the WRONG woman for him; but John doesn't see this yet. Next chapter we'll see Molly help John a little bit. It'll be told in both their POVs. READ AND REVIEW -E.L


	5. V

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

(V)

_John's POV_

It's still pretty early, 8:30 P.M. as I leave Martha's. I walk out into the street and decide to roam around a bit to clear my head. I don't want to head home, as it will mean having to be left in the confines of my thoughts in my room, attempting to hide my unease from Sherlock. I'm going to wait until after 10:00 PM to head home, as I'll be certain Sherlock will not be there.

He is after all a creature of habit—and as much as he wants to claim he is virgin and untouched—I am certain that on such days he's venturing into his favored secret brothel to "rid himself of his need" before it "disrupts in mental state and balance and interrupts his sensibilities"—all of these I quote directly from him.

Interesting enough the fact that Sherlock has entrusted me with this information, as I know he knows quite well about my troubled past. It has been years, however, since we've really spoken about these things: Sherlock occasional ventures into a high end brothel to mean a particular woman of his choosing whom he has been seeing on occasion for almost a year now, and my own background of my gunshot and witnessing the death of my friend.

The night we discussed it was so long ago, and all came shortly after our third case. I remember it clearly because it was the time he had been high, and I inebriated. I suppose men do confess their inner thoughts when drugged or drunk... and I remember that night I fully realized that Sherlock was someone I could easily call a friend, someone I could entrust with my secret. However, it has been years and in those years I have never allowed him to fully see the disruption my nightmares or memories truly cause me... then again, they have never surfaced as they are now during my time living with him.

The last thing I want to do is to have him witness me in my weakened state, or to ask and deduce my current state. I'd rather avoid him... or perhaps everyone, until I see my therapist to deal with this.

Note to self: Contact Dr. McArthur ASAP first thing in the morning...

God I must be going mental.

I keep walking until I find a bar. It's so easy to simply walk in and get a drink, but I don't know if once I start I won't be able to stop and I will be going down a horrible path.

I past it and keep walking until soon enough I see St. Bartholomew's Hospital not too far. I pass by a pale green VW Beetle parked on the corner... I know only one person who always parked on that very same corner almost every day.

My watch reads '9:30 PM'. I'm not going to even doubt that Molly is still there in that basement doing her work. I'm not surprise at all. There would be times I would walk to my car or the pub from Martha's house—which just happens to be very close to Bart's—and I'd see Molly's car still parked there. Sometimes it would be as late as 11:00 PM, but I never really asked her about it. I never really gave it any thought.

I stop and simply look at the car and at the few lights still on near the bottom floors of St. Bart's. I start to walk again, and I head pass Paddy's pub and my feet stops and I look at the entrance.

I can go for a beer...maybe a pint even. Go inside and just sit down and listen to the noise around me and just forget.

I hear the sound of the people inside the pub—the conversations, the laughters, and the clatter of the drinks. Shit. I put my hands in my pocket as I find myself pacing outside the pub.

_I can't go in. I can't. _

_I need to. Just to forget._

I run my hand through my hair as I look through the bar window. Shit. I realize my hands are shaking now and I ball them into a fist and shove them in my pockets to stop them. The memories...I can slowly feel it rising...the feeling that I felt encompassing me.

"Fuck it!" I put my hands on the handle of the heavy red wooden door of the bar and was about to pull it open until I hear my name.

"John! Is that you?"

I turn around abruptly and I see _her_ across the street, not far from that hideous green Volkswagon Beetle. She waves at me, and for a moment I just simply stand and stare, before I hesitenly raise my hand in an acknowledging wave back to her.

I hope she doesn't cross the street to come see me. I'm sure after this afternoon's lunch; she would be too shy to do so. It's the complete opposite, however, as I see her walk across the street to me.

"Molly, good evening."

"Hi, John, surprise to see you still around here."

She's bundled up in her ankle length dark blue overcoat, and a white scarf around her neck. Her hair is no longer in a side ponytail, but in a messy heap of a bun atop her head. She's smiling at me faintly, her eyes friendly, and her cheeks flushed from the cold air.

I zip up my coat as a gust of wind comes through and put my hands back in my pockets.

"I was in the area, about to...have myself a drink."

She looks behind us at the bright glowing sign reading "Paddy's Pub". It dawned on me that we were standing right outside the entrance.

"I've been there a few times; it's pretty nice place," she starts. Then looks at her watch, "I just wanted to let you know I'm done looking through those samples."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah...yes. I was going to wait until tomorrow to let you and Sherlock know. But just...figured since I've found you here..." She shrugs.

"Thanks for, uh, letting me know. I'm sure Sherlock will be happy about that."

A part of me is glad that we'll be close to solving and closing our current case; another part of me is beginning to dread that after this case Sherlock would be in his bored status again, which typically results in him attempting to tinker in my life if he does not find another form of entertainment.

"So, I guess I'll be heading off."

I get out of my self thought and I see Molly shrugging and turning back to head to her car.

"I'll be seeing you around, John."

"You too, Molly. Have a good night!"

I watch her walk to the cross sign prepared to cross the street...

"Hey, Molly, wait!" I hear myself call out to her.

She stops and turns to me

"Are you just heading home?" ...What a stupid question for me to ask. Of course she's heading home.

"Uhm, yes, I am." She walks towards me again, this time her eyes questioning.

There's a part of me that want to talk to someone, and a part of me that just wants to let it all go and disappear. Maybe all of this is fleeting really; maybe if I had someone with me at this very moment, I won't succumb so badly in a drunken stooper.

I think back at heading back to Martha's... but decide that I didn't want her to see me in this week state. Molly knows me...she wasn't anyone that I had to worry about, we weren't close and the last thing I care about is really what she would think of me. She was...in a way an acquaintance that I wasn't so concerned would think any less of me.

Her brown eyes look at me quizzingly. Her eyes avert to my left hand briefly and she looks up at me, brown eyes meeting mine with a worried expression.

"John...are you all right?"

I look down at my hand, not in my pocket and I realize they are shaking just a bit and burry it immediately inside my pocket.

"I'm okay, Molly. Just wanted to see if maybe you'd want to catch a drink."

Her look of concern doesn't dissipate. I pray my voice isn't waivering and doesn't tell her otherwise. She's quiet for a moment as if in thought. I see her open her mouth as if to speak—to question more—but she stops herself as the door to Paddy's pub burst open and a group of obviously inebriated young lads step out and chattering about.

I watch her look in at the pub as the door is held open and prepared to close.

"Uh, you don't have to, you know. I'm sure you'd had a long day."

I think I made a mistake. Who am I to ask for her company? Was I really that afraid to be left alone? I think I can handle myself—one drink is all I need.

"Sure, John, I'll have a drink," she says, a slight smile on her lips.

I look up—I hadn't realize I had been staring at the ground in thought.

"This place okay?" Somehow I have to ask, because she looks mighty uncomfortable.

"Weren't you meeting someone here?"

I lie. "I was going to..." I don't want to look like a sad prick about to get drunk on his own. "They cancelled just not too long ago, and I figured 'what the hell', you know?" I try to laugh it off, to sound sincere... she nods her head in acceptance.

"I'm not much of a drinker."

The door of the bar opens once more—the noise from the instead escaping and surrounding us briefly. She averts her gaze to peak inside again, and I can tell this would be the last place she would want to spend a time after work. Molly doesn't seem like the pub time of girl.

"How about coffee?" I ask her, and this seems to perk her interest and her eyes brighten.

"There's a café a block down open very late."

"I've never been there, but I'll take your lead."

I watch her bundle herself more and we walk side by side to the café. I find an ease overcome me knowing that I've chosen not to drink, and I've chosen to find a distraction away from this darkness or melancholy inside me. Somehow, in a sense I feel like Molly is saving me from a horrid night, and maybe even from myself, and she doesn't even know it...

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_Molly's POV_

There's something troubling John. He tries to hide it, but I can see right through it. I know how to read the little signs, and I know when people are hiding something. I know from experience. I lie and put on a façade every waking day. Sometimes though that façade cracks and whatever it is you're trying to hide or keep at bay seeps on through.

I see this happening in John-what is it that's troubling him?

We're walking side by side and I sneak glances at him. His hair is ruffled and windblown, and his brow is creased in worry. I want to know what he's thinking about. It must be something awful, or horrid.

I want to pry, but I stop myself. I don't have the courage to ask or to try to strike a conversation. I don't know what to say, so I just accept the fact that he's asked for my company... because not many people do that to begin with, and any other time I would simply be home now reading some romance novel with Toby until I fall asleep.

"Here it is!"

He opens that door for me with his announcement, and I smile at him and mutter a thanks as I go in first. The warmth of the little coffee shop envelopes us and it's comforting. There is no one in the shop, except the two of us, the barista, and a young gentleman sitting on the sofa in the corner near the fireplace reading some textbook studying intently. It is a stark contrast to the ruckus of Paddy's Pub, and I'm glad for the solace.

I see John shrugging off his heavy coat and throwing it over one of two couch on the other side of the room, not too far from the entrance and the register. I stand in line and greet the barista, who acknowledges me warmly.

"Nice evening to you! What can I brew for you this very cold evening?"

Her voice is upbeat and cheerful, that it is very easy to reflect. I look up at their menu, unsure of what to get.

"Give me a second, still deciding."

"Of course! Let me know when you're ready!" With that, she returned her attention to pastry display, neatly arranging the muffins and cookies.

I watch as John walks up to me, his hands in the pockets. He stands next to me looking up at the menu briefly and turns to me,

"You ordered yet?"

"I can't decide. How about you?"

"I usually have my coffee black, but maybe I'll try something new."

"We have our special dark roast, freshly brewed today. Very smooth and great aroma," the barista says to us.

"Sounds good to me, I'll take a large cup of that," John says, and looks at me, "What'll you get Molly?"

"I'm thinking of getting a white mocha...I usually get hot chocolate, but I may try something different this time," I tell him, "Go ahead and pay for yours; I should have an idea in a second."

"No, no. One tab, I'll pay."

"It's okay, John. Not necessary. You had our lunch."

He turns to the barista, "White mocha for her, and two of those pastries there."

"All right, sir. I'll have it all ready for you in a moment. I'll bring it up." With that the barista turns around to begin our order.

"John—" I try to tell him that I'll pay, but he simply waves a hand to quiet me.

"Molly, the lease I can do for your company."

I shake my head, I dislike having to owe somebody back. He doesn't understand that for me when someone does a gesture like that, I have to somehow find a way to return the favor in equal ways. It's just how I've always been. In the back of my head I'm already planning a way to repay him for the lunch and to find a way to offer him coffee in the future. I brush these thoughts aside though as I follow him to the maroon colored arm chairs he has chosen for us.

We sit down and I sink into the comfortable chairs with a sigh. I haven't even realized how tired I truly have been or how much I miss sitting down until now. Having performed three autopsy this evening—which requires a lot of standing—has left me craving the simply necessity of sitting in a comfy chair.

I close my eyes as I rest my arms on the soft cushion of the arm chairs.

"Looks like you needed this as much as I."

I open my eyes and turn to John, whose blue eyes are observing me. I hope I'm not blushing; I didn't realize that I totally look so out of sorts, my legs stretched out in front of me, as I sit back, still bundled in my heavy overcoat with my scarf.

"This is very comfortable," is all I say as I gather myself, stand up and remove my scarf and coat. I sit back down and stare out the window.

Where we're seated we're facing outside towards the streets. Our comfortable arm chairs situated almost side by side, and separated by a small table where we can set our drinks and food. It is so comfortable, and I can't think of a time where I would be seated here with someone other than the company of myself.

This is nice, just us sitting here relaxing.

Our drinks arrive and we thank the barista as she hands us our cups.

The mocha is delicious and I savor it with a sip.

I catch John looking a me, and he's smiling so I smile back.

This is nice.

"I don't do this often." I can't believe I just said that.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Usually at this time, I'm home by now watching the telly, or reading, or, uhm, something, you know?"

He laughs a little. Am I making this awkward already?

"Don't worry, I don't either."

He tells me this with a smile as he takes a sip of his coffee and then place the cup on the table. He's looking at the window now, as if in thought. "I'd probably be at home trying to go to sleep through Sherlock's bout of violin concertos if not here."

John pretends to imitate the sound of a screeching invisible violin. I can't help but laugh at the vision of it. Poor John trying to sleep through Sherlock's playing—I've heard so many stories about this and wouldn't be surprise if it occurred more often than not.

"Molly, don't get me wrong, he's a great violinist."

"I don't doubt it...He seems great at everything."

"Yeah, I suppose so." He laughs again, shaking his head. "But it is no joke, this case has somehow inspired him to take up violin again."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Well, it's the nature of Sherlock. This case is an easy one—he solved it in mere seconds. The only issue of course is finding substantiating evidence that a poor old lady murdered her husband and dog, and not the neighbor."

Now it makes sense why I had to look through the soil samples he gave me.

"I see."

"So, Molly, thanks your findings,this case will be closed soon." He lifts his cup of coffee in salute. "Cheers!"

I do the same and return his gesture, and we're quiet for a moment, looking outside the window watching passerbyers in the cold.

"Were you at Bart's this late because of the case?"

I turn to look at him, surprise he'd be curious to know. It's bee a long time since him or Sherlock asked how I go about helping them amidst my job of performing standard and forensic pathology in the hospital. So I answer honestly.

"You can say that...I wanted to make sure I help you with the case as soon as I can."

"Why do you do it?" I can't read his expression now, and I'm taken aback by his question.

"I, uhm, want to help the people involved—the family or loved ones of whoever it is."

"And here I was thinking it was all because of Sherlock."

"..."


	6. VI

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

A/N: Thank you for everyone following this! What do you all think so far? I'm really enjoying writing Molly and John in this verse—let me know what you think! ;) Eiri

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(VI)

There is a pause between them, and their gaze meet.

He wonders if his words came out bitter or sarcastic; it isn't his intention, but he notices a slight change in her. He isn't sure if he said something wrong or she took his words negatively.

"It's...it's not just all about Sherlock you know," she starts, then catches herself. She looks away from him and in a low voice, "I'm not...pining for him...like what you or, uhm, everyone seems to think."

He's taken aback by her words.

"I don't think that at all." He lies, and he's certain she knows very well of it.

"It's okay, I know what you and everyone seem to think of me."

She sips her mocha and shrugs, as it was a natural thing and everything was fine. She seems unbothered, yet he can see through her façade.

"Molly, you won't be the first to fancy Sherlock, you know," He wonders if that was the wrong thing to say, because she turns to him again, her lips pursed, her eyes unreadable. Did he botch up again somehow?

"Can I...ask you something, John?"

"Go ahead."

"Do you think I'm...so lonely that I'm pining over someone that I know doesn't like me at all? Do you see me like that...with Sherlock?"

Her eyes do not move away from his, and John isn't certain how to respond. He was never expecting Molly to be so candid and direct, and yet he also isn't surprised

Her voice remained soft when she spoke; there is sadness, loneliness there, and it bothers him that he could identify with it so easily.

He knew also that once again he somehow managed to hurt her or make her uncomfortable in a way. It was not his intention at all.

"Can you tell me the truth, John?" She asks; begging almost.

He tells her because he is tired of lying. He leans in close, towards her.

"Molly...in all these years, I've never known you outside of what I see when Sherlock and I visit..." He finds himself gulping down his worry, a feeling of uncomfortableness washes over him at Molly's brown listening eyes. "I always thought you very in need of Sherlock, yeah. Why else would you deal with all his crap? Our crap? Why put your job on the line to help us?"

She frowns.

He goes on. "Are you telling me you don't fancy him one bit? Or that you just enjoy taking hours outside your work, covering for us and all the shit we do, just 'because'?"

She shifts in her seat. She didn't expect him to say that, did she?

"I use to fancy him, a while ago. I thought he was the top of it all—smart, handsome—"

"high functioning sociopath, sometimes a semi-prick with an odd display of kindness," he finishes for her lightheartedly. She cracks a smile at that, and John feels just a tad bit better to have her smiling again.

"Yeah, all that stuff," she agrees.

She's recollecting the feeling of how much Sherlock had such a hold on her in the past. She really wanted John to understand that all that has changed now, and she wasn't the old Molly star struck by Sherlock—or at least she thinks or tries to think so.

"So, if not for Sherlock now, why do you deal with us lot?"

"You guys are friends, I suppose...or I'd like to think so."

He wasn't so pleased with that answer. John was certain Molly knew that they were more of aquaintances really, or business partners in the scheme of things. Outside the yearly Christmas parties (which often than not ended awkwardly whether due to Sherlock or John's girlfriend debacles), Molly never really was much a part of their social circle. They never went out for drinks, parties, or anything outside of the standard meet-greet-work encounters that a certain case requiring Molly's expertise would cause.

He could tell Molly knew herself that there was another reason outside of what she says.

"So," John begins, "is that the only reason? Should I be flattered?"

She takes another sip from her mocha—John can see this as her way of buying time or staving off her nervousness. He watches as her slender neck moved as she gulped down the warm liquid, and his eyes wonder how soft her skin looked just at that moment. He shakes this thought as Molly speaks again, and he hopes she doesn't notice him studying her the way he was.

"You want to know the truth?" She says this, as if finally deciding that she'd open up for the hell of it. Molly was transforming before his eyes, slowly getting out of her shell.

"Of course, I do. Tell me Miss Molly Hooper, please do enlighten me." He tries to say this in the same manner Sherlock would, in a haughty matter, with a flair of his hands to her urging her to go on. He was trying to his to get the odd serious tension around them to disappear. He's happy that this gets her to laugh a little, and they're at ease once again.

She leans in as if to whisper a secret to him, and he turns his ear to her and leans forward. He knows somehow she is bantering with him—she felt all right and comfortable now. "It's because I'm bored."

"Pardon?" He asks again, just wanting for her to saying it again. 

"I'm bored."

She whispers and sits back again, her mocha in hand. She's smiling at him again, and the sight of her is something he realizes he likes. Her cheeks flushed lightly red against her smooth pale cheeks, her brown eyes bright and focus, and her messy bun atop her head resembling a bird's nest the longer they sit there. It was all very 'Molly'—it was exactly as she was, in her light pink sweater and dark brown corduroys. It was quirky, and yet so her own self—so typical Molly. And he wonders to himself why he hasn't realized how much he appreciated her being so different. How easily she seems to embrace it in full humility or lack of awareness. Or maybe she really didn't care.

So he sits back and stifles a laugh that bubbles inside him at her 'secret' that she so attempted to dramatically shares. And he studies her as she sits back sipping her mocha so nonchalantly, again as if her revelation was so normal and that their encounter now was something that would occur so often—so natural.

"I thought you pathologists have exciting lives." He notes the quirk of her lips in a smile, and was glad she got his sarcasm.

"Well, of course, but sometimes there is a lull, and one can only sign off death certificates to natural causes so many times." She shrugs.

"Is that most of what you do?" He's curious, "confirm cause of death, sign the certificates?"

"A majority of the time, yes."

"I suppose it can be busy work, right?"

"People die everyday... so, yes, it can get pretty busy. Most of the autopsies I do are on people involved in motor vehicle accidents."

She says it so matter of fact.

"I had no idea; I'd think it's mainly related to murder or crime."

"That's what most people think, but really it's not...Like today, I had to do an autopsy on a father who had died from pneuomonia..." She takes another sip of her drink again, looking outside the window, "He had been in a motorcycle accident... led him in a coma for 8 months, and he was getting better too, started to recognize family, to stay awake every now and then..."

Her brows are furrowed now, and John realizes that this probably was hard for her to speak about, but was uncertain, until she continues to speak.

"The autopsy had to be done to see if he did in fact die from pneumonia."

"Well, did he?"

She nods her head and meets his gaze. "Yes, he did, all the signs were there. It should have ended there, but of course sometimes the family doesn't believe it."

"They thought otherwise?"

"The daughter firmly believed that the doctors administered him wrong medication that led to him catching pneumonia, or even thought someone intentionally poisoned him."

"What? That's unbelievable!"

"It happens, John, more so than you think." She shakes her head, "Sometimes I can only do so much, and what I hope would provide closure and true insight sometimes gets ignored."

"But in this instance, you've only done your job. You don't have to deal with the family."

"That's true, but... it bothers me a great deal sometimes."

He simply shakes his head in acknowledgement, not knowing what to say.

She goes on, "I met the daughter to talk about the autopsy and findings. There she was standing in front of me crying hysterically, explaining how she didn't believe that her dad would die so easily through pneumonia."

"Pneumonia is a common thing to catch, especially with his immune system being weak all those months."

"Of course, but she didn't believe that—she couldn't. She couldn't believe the lab test results I performed on all the organs either."

"It must have been to traumatic for her... maybe she was still in shock."

"I thought of that. I mean to one day see your only father showing signs of getting better after 8 months of hopelessness, and only to see them die so quickly. She was hysterical."

"I can imagine."

"She claimed I falsified the autopsy results and demanded it be reviewed by another pathologist."

"Unbelievable," John says as he catches the worry on Molly's face. He cannot imagine Molly having to face an upset daughter encroaching on her and placing blame. He tries to imagine a shy and genteel Molly handling someone irate and claiming her wrong. He meets her gaze and asks, "So, Molly, what'd you do?"

She sighs, looking into her cup in thought. "I presented her with my findings, showed her pictures of the lungs, the tests, biopsies, and my credentials.

But most importantly let her know that if she did in fact want another autopsy, she would have to go ahead and pay for the process...

or take it up with authorities and file a claim against me to seek legal action if she in fact believed I didn't do my job to the best of my ability. I...don't fear it."

"And did she take on any of those actions?" He asks.

"Her family found her and calmed her down, and she left." He senses her feeling of stress as she meets his gaze, "I'm hoping it doesn't escalate to anything...I don't think she'll take action; I hope she doesn't anyway."

"I'm sure she won't, Molly. She's probably just overly upset and in denial of losing someone so close to her."

"I hope so, John." She sets her cup, now empty, and meets his gaze. "I guess, I should be use to this by now. It isn't the first time this happened."

"People handle death differently, and I'm not surprise she tried to face you like that. Molly, I don't doubt it was unsettling."

"It...was. It was unsettling, but I wish I could not be so bothered by it."

"Molly, she accused you of not doing your job and lying on the reports. I'd be as bothered as you—pissed off even."

He doesn't like the air of sadness and disappointment he felt enveloping her. He doesn't like the sadness in those brown eyes staring back at him. He wonders when this started to be the case—but he brushes it off.

"People are afraid of death, and especially losing someone so close," he explains to her; he hopes this consoles her in a way. The look she gives him is with question and he cannot tell where her mood was leading to now.

"Are you afraid of death?" She asks and this takes him aback. He's quiet for a moment before he studies her face, blue eyes clashing against her brown ones as he answers.

"I've seen enough of it to realize what being alive is." He studies her expression, which he cannot read now. She seems to be in thought of something, and he wonders if her experience with one of her autopsies earlier that day impacted her in a way that caused her to have a melancholy feeling inside. He wonders if she was trying to keep it at bay, or if she needed to speak with someone too.

"Sorry, John, I didn't mean to ask such a question. My mind is just..." She shakes her head. "Can we talk about something else?"

He sees the pleading look in her eyes, and he smiles at her warmly. He gets it; he understands, and yet he also feels guilty. He feels guilty that here she was—Molly Cooper—sharing something that he was certain she wouldn't never share with anyone, and he himself could not even find it in himself to explain his prior behavior that led her to even spend the evening with him.

"Or...did you want to leave now?"

He snaps from his thoughts and return back to her at her question.

"Molly, I'm sorry...pardon?"

She winds her scarf tighter around her neck as she studies him and asks again, "Did you want to head out now?"

He realizes she had read his demeanor as one that wanted to end their time. A part of John already knows that Molly once again has decided that he had somehow found her a bore once again and wants to immediately end their time. How wrong she was—he thinks this.

"Uhm...Molly, are you ready to head back home?" He looks at the time, and realizes it is not even close to 10:45 AM, and he prays she stays a little longer. "I...was hoping we'd finish these pastries." He feels ridiculous at the weak attempt of a suggestion of him wanting her to stay a little longer.

Molly's gaze fall on the two pasties on the table, untouched, and back to John. He's happy when it seems she gets it, and she responds to him in kind, "I wouldn't want these to go to waste."

John sits back on the couch and finds himself in a lighter mood. "So, you mentioned a change of subject..."

"I did." She seems shy again.

"Well...for one, have you noticed Lestrad's new hair color?"

She bursts out in laughter, "Oh! I thought I was the only one who noticed!"

"Good...that solves it; I wasn't hallucinating then... It's certain he has tied his hair a bit too dark to fight age."

She slaps him on the shoulder lightly as they laugh once again, "That's a mean thing to say! He's not that old!"

Somehow John realizes he loves her laugh, and the twinkle in her eyes.


	7. VII

Perpetua

A Molly/John Fanfiction

By Eiri Lain

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(VII)

"_John, I enjoyed tonight. Thanks for inviting me."_

"_No, thank you, Molly! I needed it. Better than the pub anyway, right?"_

"…_Yeah. It's a decent place to go."_

"_Definitely agree with you there. I'm glad you liked it."_

"_I'll see you around, I guess."_

"_Don't worry, I'll be stopping by St. Bart's with Sherlock tomorrow."_

"_Oh, uhm...that's good. So tomorrow then."_

"_I'll see you around, drive home safe, Molly."_

"_Thanks, John...you know it wasn't necessary you walk me to my car…."_

"_It's pretty late; don't worry about it."_

"_Okay..."_

"…_Yeah…I'll be off."_

"_John...before you go…"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_I hope you know that…uhm…if you need to talk about anything—I mean if you wanted to, because I'm not, uhm, forcing you or anything…-I hope you know you can talk to me."_

"…_What are you trying to say, Molly?"_

"_It's just…earlier this evening, when I saw you…I thought maybe something's bothering you, or there's, uhm, something wrong."_

"…"

"_I didn't want to bring it up at all at the café, but I realize I have to. If there's anything you wan to speak about or… Sorry…Uhm, gosh, forget it—never mind; maybe I'm just being silly, I was probably just tired and—"_

"_Molly…"_

"—_forget what I said, John… just, uh, know I'm here and I uhm—"_

"_Molly…"_

"…_I'll see you tomorrow."_

"_Molly, wait...hold, up don't get in yet."_

"_Hmm?"_

"_Listen...you're right. Things this evening… let's just say it'd been a rough day."_

"_Oh… I'm sorry, it's not my intention to pry or anything. I hope you know that."_

"_I know… just, don't worry, okay?"_

"_I just never saw you like how you were earlier…before the café, I mean…"_

"_There's a few things I've got to deal with, and I …just know that you keeping me company… well, Molly, it means a lot."_

"_I, uhm, glad I could at least do that much."_

"_I'm serious, it really did help. "_

"…_okay."_

"_So, uh, don't worry. "_

"_I'm sorry, John, for sounding like a blabbering idiot and—"_

"_I'll take your offer."_

"…_Oh…"_

"_If I need to vent, or talk or anything, I'll let you know… you owe me for treating us to coffee anyway."_

"…_Okay, uhm, sure. I-I think that's good."_

"_So, I'll see you tomorrow, then?"_

"_Yes, see you tomorrow, John."_

"_And thanks again."_

"_Uhm, your welcome..and thank you again too..."_

"_Good night, Molly."_

"_Good night, John."_

_._

_._

_._

Molly's POV

I hope John's okay.

He didn't look like it today, and I could tell he was trying to hide it.

I wish I knew what it was that he seemed so worried about.

I wish I was brave enough to bring it up when we were sitting in the coffeehouse.

And yet...I'm also happy that I was afraid enough to bring it up and that I did not ask him to talk about it. I can only imagine sitting there with him and being awkward trying to get him to open up to me.

I don't even know why it would matter.

Aside from today, I never really spoke to John about anything else other than the basics of his cases with Sherlock. There was of course the few occasions where we'd share a meaningless chat about the drinks at the Christmas parties and office get-togethers. There were also the times were I'd agree to his own easy deduction on things while in the lab. There were even the occasional times where I'd make a comment about a place he'd plan to take his girlfriend or whoever it was he would be dating... although that hasn't really occurred these past couple of months.

Why do I even care? Why does it matter?

People usually only notice me when they need something, or when they're so lonely and no one else was available. Well...that's what I always tell myself... but the truth is, I am still trying to find out why John of all people have decided that I'd be okay for someone to have as company...

Don't get me wrong... I know my ins and outs, and my own flaws.

I'm not the best socially; I know I'm awkward... and most of the time the thought of even being surrounded by people make me so anxious, that I end up stuttering or blabbering like an idiot, or hide behind my work.

I am after all Molly Hooper, Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist, friends of the dead, socially awkward, can't-strike-a-decent-conversation, nerdy, dorky , cat-lover Molly Hooper. And I'm always the opposite—the opposite of everyone else around me that I always thought had it all figure out, the opposite of people like Sherlock, like John.

Until tonight, I always thought John had it together. He was always the consistent human side of Sherlock, who always reminds him of the etiquettes in society, and tames his great ability to somehow say just the most harsh and hurtful things in the most inopportune times. John is always the "sorry" side kick of Sherlock—that's how I like to think of it. He's the one that's a disclaimer of Sherlock—the one that always apologizes on his behalf when Sherlock doesn't see, or says the "Sherlock is just being Sherlock, he's a little different like that" or "Don't mind him, he means -fill in the blank here-".

That's really all John has been to me in the couple of years I've known him. And although I've seen him fleetingly in holiday parties or birthday parties (well...really, it's just Christmas parties, New Years Eve, and Lestrad's birthday party), I've never really sat down to speak with him about anything but their cases, or Sherlock when he gets in his rut.

So, who is to really say that I'm the best person to make the assumption that something is wrong with John or that something serious is bothering him? Am I just making the assumption that it's really not all that it seems?-Or maybe, I'm looking at this all through the wrong perspective. Maybe there really is nothing wrong with John—maybe I just ended up embarrassing myself by letting him know that I'd be available to talk if he ever needs me and sounding like he was someone in need of a company of a person like me.

Maybe he's perfectly fine, and I just made an awkward mess of things through my assumptions. Maybe I read things all wrong, and that his eyes didn't seem sad, or that his hands weren't shaking just for a split second—was I seeing things?

It could be John felt bad for me—Molly Hooper...boring, lonely, weird, socially awkward, Molly Hooper, who sits by herself in the lunch room, and enjoys the company of her many cadavers and their silence. Maybe he felt sobad for me that he decided, "Well, what the hell, if I took her to lunch, I might as well take her for coffee!"

Augh... stop it! Stop it!

I'm tired of thinking this way.

I'm tired of thinking like I'm not worth anything at all.

I'm tired of ...I'm tired of not liking myself; of not being noticed or feeling worthy.

I'm tired of...

I turn the t.v. on and I gather Toby in my arms as I sit on the couch. Some show about a man stranded on an island talking to a volleyball is showing and along with it plays dramatic music as he cries what look like joyful tears due to some unknown reason.

It doesn't matter what it's about and I force myself to watch it.

I force myself to clear whatever it is in my head and just sit.

The clock above my television reads 3:30 AM at this point. I'll probably stay up another hour.

Tomorrow is night shift.

I'll stay awake for a while until I pass out unknowingly on my couch... just like normal...just like everyday... because I'd rather not think about being so pathetic... I'd rather just ignore it.

I'd rather not even think about how odd today has been or even why of all people John has decided to be nice to me, and to notice me.

Maybe thinking about it isn't worth it, and it all doesn't mean anything at all.


End file.
